


Patrick Stump: Frequent Flier, Toddler Comedian, and Hot Dad Enthusiast

by fro_baby



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe - No Band, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, hot dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 09:56:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3245387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fro_baby/pseuds/fro_baby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He glances back across the aisle and sees that things are no longer sunny in Munchkinland; the kid has started bouncing restlessly in his seat, clearly bored out of his mind but too well behaved to wake up his dad. Patrick may not be the child whisperer, but he knows enough to recognize that if the tiny blond cherub doesn’t find a source of entertainment soon, things are going to get incredibly ugly. </p>
<p>(Or, Patrick is a disaster, airplanes are terrible, and the dad across the aisle has absolutely <i>no</i> right to be so hot.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patrick Stump: Frequent Flier, Toddler Comedian, and Hot Dad Enthusiast

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt on Tumblr: "you fell asleep and i started making funny faces at your kid to keep them amused and the steward mistook us for a couple au," because how could you _not_ apply that to Peterick?
> 
> (If you're not familiar with Handel's Hallelujah Chorus, [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=usfiAsWR4qU) might come in handy during this fic. And yes, I'm fully aware that I'm a human trashcan. Please enjoy.)

            No matter how many times Patrick does it, it’s a miserable flight; nearly five hours in economy is enough to make him think twice about every trip to LA—okay, three times, because his all-consuming hatred of LA is already enough to make him think twice, but whatever. He can’t decide which is worse: the trip out, wedged between horrifyingly tan, skinny SoCal people and dreading the moment when the wheels hit the tarmac, or the trip back, dreaming of deep-dish pizza and comforting Midwestern accents and cursing every second of delay that keeps him away from home.

            This flight, he decides, is particularly awful. Between the forty-five sweltering minutes of sitting on the runway at LAX, the stomach-churning takeoff that leaves him nauseous and pale(r than usual), and the incessant crying of some godforsaken infant three rows back, he’s more than ready to jump out the emergency exit door.

            Not, of course, that he could reach it; he’s trapped in an aisle seat, which shouldn’t be much of a problem for a little dude like him except for the fact that he likes his elbow space, okay, and he’s already suffered two excruciating funny-bone blows from the drinks cart, and he is _so_ not ready for his life to turn into an awful Wedding Singer reenactment (minus, of course, the wedding and the singer and everything else about that movie except the fucking drinks cart).

            And then, just as he plunks his headphones down over his ears and gets ready to ascend to his FKA Twigs-induced dreamland, the motherfucker behind him starts kicking his seat. Hard. Children, he thinks, bracing himself for the impact of yet another Power Rangers sneaker on his spine, should really not be allowed on planes.

            As if to punish him for being a miserable child-hating scrooge, the dude in front of him leans his seat _all_ the way back, hard enough to slosh Patrick’s water all over his tray table and lap. People, Patrick decides grimly as he swabs futilely at his jeans with the miserable excuse for an airplane napkin, should really not be allowed on planes.

            It’s times like these that he seriously considers quitting his job. Because as wonderful and exciting and bills-paying as music production can be, there is _no_ way it’s worth spending this much time in LA, letting tiny assholes play amateur chiropractor through his seat, and getting drenched by larger assholes who need far more space than any human being should be legally allowed to take up in an enclosed area. As a stray ice cube slips off his tray and onto his lap, he thinks longingly of going back to his day job as music critic for the Sun-Times—which, in spite of involving a semi-constant level of boredom and bad EPs, at least did not subject him to such concentrated segments of pure torture.

            As he scowls and tries to shimmy the ice cube off his pants, he hears a faint giggle from somewhere nearby. Pulling off his headphones, he glances up and realizes that there’s another kid across the aisle from him, and this one—this one is fucking _laughing_ at him. Not, he realizes belatedly, that he can entirely bring himself to mind, because a, this one hasn’t started kicking him or screaming yet, and b, he’s like, really adorable. Wispy blond curls, rosy cheeks, the whole deal—plus a Public Enemy tee shirt, which is really cool, what the fuck, who dressed this kid?

            With Sherlock Holmes-like deduction skills, Patrick quickly realizes that it was probably the thirty-something dude passed out in the seat next to the boy, judging by the skin-tight Ramones shirt, the even tighter black jeans, and the exhausted expression that screams _I just wrangled a toddler onto an airplane and have literally no energy left in my body._

            Based on Patrick’s brief experiences with his nieces and nephews, he can’t exactly blame the guy for drooling all over his headrest, but the kid is awake as hell, sitting up straight in his seat and watching Patrick curiously. Just for fun, Patrick grimaces grotesquely, flapping his hands excessively at the ice cube melting slowly onto his knee. He’s rewarded with another giggle and a hiding of that precious face behind chubby hands, a sure sign that he’s a comedic genius in toddler-land.

            Well, community service done for the day, he decides, leaning back in his seat and replacing his headphones. Maybe this will win him enough cosmic brownie points to pass the rest of the flight in peace.

            But then he glances back across the aisle and sees that things are no longer sunny in Munchkinland; the kid has started bouncing restlessly in his seat, clearly bored out of his mind but too well behaved to wake up his dad. Patrick may not be the child whisperer, but he knows enough to recognize that if the tiny blond cherub doesn’t find a source of entertainment soon, things are going to get incredibly ugly.

            And honestly, the last thing he needs is _another_ brat going off like a tornado siren in his personal space, so he does the first thing that comes to mind: catches the kid’s eye, puffs out his cheeks, and makes a ridiculous face. The clouds don’t part immediately, but the thunderous frown vanishes from the boy’s face. Now he mostly just looks confused, which is definitely better than borderline temper tantrum territory.

            Patrick pulls another face, this one involving tongue and some pretty impressive eye crossing, if he does say so himself, and the kid starts to smile. And, okay, Patrick’s never been much of a class clown, but he has to admit that this is a damn sight better than moping over his soaking jeans and blasting techno until his head aches. He makes another face, and then another, each one more outlandish than the last, and before he knows it the kid is laughing hysterically and he’s kind of, um, having a good time.

            And then, without warning, the plane jerks horribly, and Patrick’s wide-eyed fish face turns into a look of sheer terror as the fasten seatbelt sign blinks on with a loud _ding._ As the captain’s crackly voice warns them, rather belatedly, about some unexpected turbulence, the kid across the aisle opens his mouth and prepares to let out a shriek.

            That is, until Patrick hastily pulls another face, this one absurd enough to shock the kid out of his terror and straight into another loud giggle.

            “Sir?”

            Patrick glances up, realizes with horror that he’s crossing his eyes at the flight attendant, and quickly resumes what passes for his normal adult expression.

            “Sir, the captain has fastened the seatbelt sign,” she informs him, and he glances down perplexedly at his lap, which is securely belted to his seat—his low-level anxieties about flying and fiery midair death wouldn’t let him do anything but strap his tiny ass in as tightly as possible.

            And then she continues, impossibly loud amidst the ambient engine noise and assorted screaming children: “Would you mind, uh, waking up your husband and asking him to fasten his?”

            “Um,” Patrick says blankly, which is apparently all she needs for an answer; she strides briskly away down the aisle just as the blond kid’s dad stretches, yawns, and opens his eyes.

            _Fuck_ is Patrick’s first thought. _Wait, since when are dads that attractive?_ is his second. _Fuck_ is his third.

            “You okay, little dude?” the guy—the _dad_ , the _probably married to someone_ _dad_ across the aisle asks, smoothing the boy’s curls back from his forehead. The kid nods absently, still staring over at Patrick as if hoping for more facial gymnastics.

            The dude follows his son’s gaze and locks eyes with Patrick, who flushes like a boiled lobster and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind: “They, uh. They said you have to fasten your seatbelt.”

            “I heard,” the guy grins, and Patrick’s face is so hot that his entire head might as well be a meteor shooting through the stratosphere. He’s kind of identifying really strongly with pointless chunks of space rock that flame out spectacularly for everyone to see.

            “Oh,” is all he manages, and it feels kind of like impact, like plowing face-first into the ground until he’s buried six feet under. Or, at least, full-body immersion in dirt would be the ideal scenario right now; instead, he’s sitting in an uncomfortable seat staring uselessly at the hottest dad he’s ever seen and slowly turning the color of an overripe tomato.

            “Sorry if my kid was bothering you,” Hot Dad says genially, putting an affectionate hand on the boy’s head. “I kinda zonked out there, poor dude was probably bored out of his gourd.”

            “No, it’s cool,” Patrick says hastily, his brain fighting to process the sheer incongruousness of this heavily tattooed, lavender-haired, Ramones shirt-wearing vision uttering the word _gourd._ “I, uh—I was making faces at him. To keep him, uh, entertained and stuff—that’s probably why she thought, uh. Y’know.”

            “Yeah,” Hot Dad nods, smiling a little like he’s not sure if Patrick is endearing or just really strange.

            Patrick clears his throat and decides to take his best shot at salvaging the situation: “Anyway, he, uh, he seemed like he was kinda heading into serious tantrum land and I figured we’d all be happier if he, um. Didn’t go there.”

            “True that,” Hot Dad laughs, miraculously un-freaked out by Patrick’s total stammering weirdness. “I really appreciate that, man, I needed that nap.”

            “I could tell,” Patrick grins, the tension seeping out of his shoulders because this is, like, a surprisingly great interaction for a flight out of LA; they’re both smiling and no one has even uttered the words ‘juice cleanse.’ “Besides, we both had a good time, right, bud?” He smiles over at the boy, who offers him a nod and a tiny smile in return.

            “Glad to hear it,” Hot Dad chuckles, ruffling the kid’s curls. “You introduced yourself yet, little dude?” The boy shakes his head, and the dad frowns exaggeratedly. “Young padawan, where are your manners? Tell the nice man your name.”

            “Bronx,” the kid says shyly, extending a tiny hand across the aisle like a mini businessman.

            “Nice to meet you, Bronx,” Patrick says solemnly, stifling a smile and shaking the boy’s hand. “My name is Patrick.”

            “Pete, by the way,” Hot Dad says with a grin as Bronx retracts his little paw. “Sleeping beauty and terrible dad extraordinaire.”

            “I don’t know about that,” Patrick smiles and oops, that comes out a little flirty, so he aims carefully for Midwestern friendliness when he adds, “Seems like you’ve raised him pretty well.”

            “That’s mostly his mom, I’m afraid,” Pete shrugs, and Patrick’s stomach drops to about the level of the flotation device stored under his seat. _Well, duh, Patrick,_ he berates himself silently, feeling his smile go slightly glassy. _You knew this was coming, you can’t just live in unattached hot dad denial forever._

And then Pete laughs ruefully and adds, “Too bad she only gets custody half the year, huh?”

            Patrick can’t help but blink at him, open-mouthed, for just a moment. It’s awfully rude, he’s painfully aware of that, but it’s kind of hard to control his facial expression when there are birds tweeting and a choir singing the Hallelujah chorus somewhere in the distance. Unattached hot dad denial, meet reality.

            “Oh,” he says blankly and that’s pretty awkward, yikes, so he pulls on his best _I’m mildly curious and asking questions to make small talk but I promise that I’m not weirdly invested in finding out whether you’re single_ face and says, “LA’s kind of a long commute, huh?”

            “Yeah, my dude’s a frequent flier,” Pete says, and there’s a smile there but also a little bit of strain, and Patrick can’t help but wonder if the divorce was ugly. “Still, I get to stay in Chicago _and_ be fun vacation dad, so what’s not to like?”

            “Whereabouts in Chicago?” Patrick asks, which is definitely a normal thing to ask, right, he doesn’t sound too excited about the possibility that he might have a certified hot dad in his zip code, right?

            “The burbs, baby, born and raised,” Pete grins.

            “No kidding! I grew up in Evanston.”

            “Wilmette, dude!” And this might just be Patrick, but Pete seems a little more than reasonably excited about the fact that they happened to be born in two massive suburbs that happen to be less than ten minutes apart, but whatever. He’s probably just projecting.

            “I went to New Trier, you ever heard of it?” Pete adds, and yeah, definitely excited, definitely cute.

            “Heard of it?” Patrick snorts. “I hated you guys, man, you always kicked our ass—butts in marching band competitions.” He corrects himself hastily, shooting a panicked look at the two-year-old listening intently to their conversation.

            “So you were a band geek, huh? Shoulda known, Patrick, shoulda known.”

            They talk high school for a little while longer, but Pete seems kind of eager to leave that topic behind, so they quickly move on to music. Which is, well, kind of Patrick’s forte, so he tries to walk the line between “knowledgeable and charming” and “annoying nerd boy who never shuts up.” It kind of seems to work, especially since Pete turns out to be a veritable musical encyclopedia in his own right—because, it turns out, he’s an industry lawyer, recently retired from the corporate LA sideshow to return to his native Chicago scene.

            And, okay, Patrick doesn’t normally care much for other people in the business, but Pete is funny and charming and weirdly genuine for a shark, and they have, like, _serious_ chemistry. He’s even heard of some of Patrick’s work, from the early reviewing days (“Dude, you _eviscerated_ my first band’s biggest rivals, that was _awesome_!”) to some of the most recent producing stuff (“Wait, seriously, you produced that Tyga record, I have been wondering for _years_ who that genius was!”), and by the time the captain tells the flight attendants to prepare for arrival, Patrick finds himself wishing that this flight would never end.

            They keep up the conversation throughout descent, landing, and taxi, but Patrick’s becoming a little distracted by the mounting realization that he really _likes_ this guy, enjoys his excessive enthusiasm and his goofy jokes and his ridiculously adorable son. Beyond being weirdly hot, Pete is also a cool guy, and Patrick is going to be super bummed when they say goodbye at the gate and never see each other again. Because Pete’s got a life, clearly, a growing son and a demanding career and what sounds like the most extensive social circle in the Chicago metropolitan area, and Patrick’s got, like, an apartment filled with records and a weird little dog. He can definitely predict who’s going to be missing whom in this scenario.

            At least, that’s what he thinks until Pete gets to his feet, pulls Bronx’s Star Wars backpack out of the overhead bin, and says, “Look, man, I know this isn’t exactly, like, a normal thing to say to someone you just met on an airplane—and you’re totally free to say no, by the way, no pressure—but, uh…would you maybe want to get coffee sometime?”

            “Um,” Patrick says, and then the words sink all the way in and his brain says _what_ and his stomach says _oh my god_ and his mouth says, “Yeah, definitely, I’d love that.”

            “Because, y’know, I was thinking,” Pete adds, helping Bronx out of his seat, “It’s so nice to find someone, like, normal in this industry, and I really dig talking shop with you.”

            “Yeah,” Patrick replies weakly, fumbling his satchel onto his shoulder because right, yes, this makes sense, Pete is being a good businessman and making connections wherever he can, this is not a personal thing at all-

            “Plus, you have, like, _excellent_ taste in 90’s hardcore,” Pete continues with a grin and wait, was that flirty? Is Pete flirting with him? “ _And_ good hip-hop, which is a, not at all normal for a white dude, and b, such a rare and awesome combination that I feel like I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask you out.”

            And Patrick’s rooted to the spot now, mouth hanging a little bit open, and he thinks he can hear the birds and the Handel starting up again.

            “ _Plus_ my kid likes you.” Pete’s still talking, a little fast and nervous under the thin veneer of confidence and charm, which is really quite endearing. “And you wore a Cubs shirt in LAX, which I think means that you’re kind of an idiot and also we’re soul mates. So, like, yeah, you still totally have veto power, but, uh. What do you say?”

            “Yes,” Patrick says instantly, his voice a little bit weak because _soul mates_ , and Pete leans over with a questioning look.

            “Uh, I mean-” Patrick clears his throat, frantically pulling his wits down from where they’re floating in a happy cloud at least three feet above his head. “First off, I think we’re holding up the entire plane, and secondly, yes, I would love to get coffee with you.”

            “Cool.” Pete grins, grabs Bronx’s hand, and practically _skips_ off down the aisle, paying no heed to the twenty rows of irritable passengers glaring daggers at his back. Shaking his head, Patrick laughs to himself and follows him, unable to force the goofy grin off his face. All things considered, he has to admit that this has probably been the best flight ever.


End file.
